Herald of Truth
by ibbitmonster
Summary: A look into the aftermath of Haven with Inquisitor Lavellan, features a reunion of the Hero of Ferelden Commander Surana and former lover of the Commander Cullen appearing in the veteran templar's life once more after a 10 year silence between the longtime companions.
1. First Meeting

Cassandra was busy discussing something with a scout when he walked up. He waited until the third party left, then turned to the seeker.

"Where is the Herald?" he tried to contain the urgency in his tone, but it came out as more of a bark than a restrained inquiry. Cassandra's lips curled back in a sneer.

"I am not her keeper," her tone was full of ire, and had been since earlier that day. It didn't help his mood nor his patience to have her continually combat him on every little thing. He didn't have the _time_ to deal with her attitude right now.

"But you are a Seeker, are you not?" he argued.

"And you are a templar, so why don't _you_ go find the mage," she retaliated. His scowl deepened.

"_Former_ templar, I will remind you," he warned, "my title is commander or ser now, and nothing more."

She bared her teeth for a brief moment, but had no biting remark to reply with. He shifted his stance to reassert himself and tried again.

"She needs to be briefed about the situation in the Hinterlands – we don't have time to stand around with our heads up our asses while she wanders about the camp," he said.

"A fact I am well-aware of, _Commander_," she bit on the end of his title like a distasteful scrap of meat, then worked her mouth into a frown. "She was last seen speaking to Varric, so perhaps you should ask _him_."

The two held a challenging stare for a moment before Cullen broke away and waved a hand in disgust, electing to walk away rather than spend another five minutes volleying thinly-veiled insults at one another. If the Seeker wanted to pretend there was no need for urgency, then he would retrieve their party himself.

"Can't get anything done around here in proper time," he mumbled to himself while pushing open the chantry doors to the courtyard. A blast of cold air clawed at his face as he stepped out, bracing him against the cold before he shouldered forward toward the lower campsite. He paused to acknowledge the salutes from a band of passing soldiers, then continued down the winding path to where Varric stooped to poke at a fire.

"Curly!" he announced Cullen's arrival before he could greet him. He twinged at the loud echo of his unwanted nickname. He had a bad habit of doing that. "Can't say I'm glad to see you again so soon," Varric smiled. It was a strained gesture, and as fake as always. Interactions with the Commander and former templar rarely ever spawned from a desire for idle chitchat, something the dwarf had clearly not forgotten.

"Where is the Herald?" he demanded.

"By all means, skip the pleasantries," Varric laughed. Cullen's patience was wearing thin.

"There is a veil_ torn open _and demons pouring out by the _hour_ – now _where_ is the mage?" his voice carried across the camp to a group of huddled refugees who cringed and pretended not to notice.

"Now, now Curly – don't get your templar breeches in a knot," he held up his hands in surrender. Varric turned around and began scouring the lowlands of the camp. After a pause, he perked and pointed into the distance.

"I think she went in that direction, last I saw..." he sounded uncertain. Cullen looked to where he was pointing – past the lake and far into the woods. Somewhere any apostate could easily escape the grasps of their jailer. An alarm immediately went off in his head.

"You let an _apostate_ mage wander off _unsupervised _into the woods?!" he raised his voice again. More nervous looks from the refugees. He forced himself to calm down, and leaned in so the others would not overhear.

"She said she'd be back in a little while," Varric's voice began to pitch in fear when the commander grabbed him by the nape of his shirt.

"And you believed her?" he demanded. Varric just shrugged, and with a frustrated sigh he released his grip on the dwarf and stood back up. He scoured the expanse of woods where Varric had pointed, seeing no signs of obvious movement. Of course, then it would be too easy, wouldn't it?

"It's not as if she has anywhere to go, Commander. We're in the middle of the mountains," Varric tried to defend his point, but it was a weak one at best.

"There are plenty of places for an apostate to hide out here, Varric," he ignored his empty reassurances and walked past him towards the lake.

"Just don't blame me when she freezes you with magic for startling her!" he warned after the commander. Cullen paid him no mind and, pulling his fur pauldrons closer to combat the wind, began an arduous trek down to the lake's edge to look for the missing mage.

Once he reached the frozen shoreline, he could see light footsteps where she'd walked along the edge. There weren't any refugees or soldiers nearby, which meant she could have wandered off to anywhere by now. Groaning, he turned and began following the footsteps into the woods, praying to the Maker she wasn't halfway through the mountains by now.

It surprisingly didn't take as long as he thought to track her down, but any time lost was longer than he would have liked. She shifted between the treeline, her back facing her party as she stooped to picked something up. He did his best to approach silently, but with heavy armor weighing him down and iced paths it was nearly impossible. He sheepishly approached the trunk of a pine, and clung to the backside of it for support.

He considered walking out into the open, but Varric's caution pricked at the back of his mind in that moment. A fistful of ice magic to the face would really be more than he was willing to tolerate today. Rather than stand foolishly for another five minutes debating on the best approach, she decided for him with a light statement of caution thrown his way.

"Elfroot grows strong here, despite the cold," she said without turning around. She hid her meaning under careful layers of conversational courtesy, but it was her way of warning him. He knew better than to play the fool, and after a reluctant pause moved out from behind the tree just as she finished harvesting a root from the snow and placed it into a satchel at her hip.

He knew she was Dalish without asking. Her robes and markings were enough, but he recognized the certain way she and her kind carried themselves – proud and unafraid. He cleared his throat and set his feet apart to reclaim himself.

"You're needed back at camp, in the war room to be more specific," he said. She glanced up – a second's worth of calculation – then looked away again and continued her search.

"I am aware," were her only words. She was neutral, but guarded. If she recognized him or knew of his title, she hadn't admitted to it yet. He crossed his arms as she stooped again to cut another root from the snow.

"_Meaning_ we don't have the luxury for you to be wandering around by yourself doing Maker-knows-what out here," his tone became accusing again. She continued to carefully uproot another stalk, placed it in her satchel, then rose to her feet.

"I am gathering herbs for the soldiers – there are many wounded," she said, then continued walking. He followed.

"I do not care what you are doing mage, and I don't think it was a smart idea to wander off alone in the first place," he cut in. She did not retaliate, and nor did she lash out to show her offense. Instead, she continued her calm exercise of walking a few feet and pausing only to cut another stalk of elfroot.

"Are you saying that out of fear for my safety, or your own?" was her reply after another glance. He stepped back, a touch unnerved but still angry.

"Do not pretend you are not capable of much more damage than help," he accused. "You are a mage with a dangerous amount of magic at your disposal; that is cause enough to be suspicious."

She looked up again, her brow knitting in the slightest, then turned away before sheathing the dagger she had used to cut the elfroot.

"Should I be suspicious of you then because you carry a sword?" she retaliated in a low voice, her eyes cutting to where his hand rested on his belt. He'd never removed it from the hilt since entering the forest – an old habit he'd hardly noticed until now. Surprised, he released his grip and stepped back. His throat knotted a bit when he realized just how unkind he must have sounded.

"I..." the words burrowed, thick and clumsy. "I-I apologize. I didn't mean to lecture you," he sighed. He needed to be level – something that seemed to slip from his grasp more and more lately. A headache was blooming behind his eyes. He could no longer see clearly, and she was only trying to help. He tried to remind himself of that.

"Cassandra and the others are waiting in the Chantry hall, when you are ready," he ducked his head and turned away, unable to find reason to stay any longer. He'd made an ass of himself enough already, and recognized when he should leave things where they lay. He had to remember to be kind.

He'd promised her he would.


	2. Midnight Burning

He was at it again. At the end of the hallway a lone candle flickered. Rasheda approached in quiet, making sure of her company before announcing herself. He looked up, lingered briefly to note her identity, then returned to scouring the papers spread over the war table. They'd only been in Haven for a few short weeks, but already she was feeling the weight of their situation. She couldn't imagine it was any easier for the advisors – Cullen, least of all.

"Do you ever sleep?" she broke the silence with her question. It was more so the voice of a concerned healer than a snide remark. The commander, however, took it as the latter and turned accusing eyes up at her.

"Not when so many mages skulk my dream-realm at night, well-remembered to my former title as their keeper," he remarked on her recent decision to shelter the Redcliffe mages at Haven – one he had very loudly voiced his disapproval on. His tone carried cold and harsh like dead wood across the room to her, causing Rasheda to take a light step back and re-evaluate her position. She tensed her face. Almost immediately after hearing the heavy echo of his own voice, the commander's features softened in error and he corrected himself.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm just... tired, I suppose," he looked back down when he could think of no worthy answer. Rasheda stepped her way carefully around the table, feet silent and eyes scouring the dark for unsavory listeners. They were alone, at least for now. She eased up and climbed into a nearby chair, folding up her legs to the seat to feel comfortable. Cullen glanced again, amused by her perch, and tried to hide the edge of a smile.

"You're awake as well, so I cannot be the only one who prefers the solitude of night," his voice was kinder when he spoke again to fill the silence. Rasheda's ears flicked.

"This is true, but you are the only one who finds purpose in working so hard," she replied. Then, adjusting to grip her ankles, surveyed his straining eyes as he tried to reread one of the scrawlings for a third time. "Tell me, what are you trying to prove by pushing yourself so hard?" she tilted her head at him, "that you will find the answer before everyone else, or that you simply work harder than the rest of us?" A note of injury entered her voice at the end.

She knew very little of the commander other than the fact he kept a stone wall's distance between himself and others. She worried at times it would affect his ability to lead, and more so than ever as of late. The tired had begun to imprint under his eyes and mouth – a sure sign this midnight excursion was not an isolated event.

"It's _not_-" he paused when he heard the temper to his voice, and again retracted himself with a sigh. "It's not like that," he said. "If I can keep my head and hands busy, I won't have to deal with... _myself_," he finished. Deflecting again. Rasheda knew better than to press.

"True of anyone, Commander," she agreed. She waited until he looked down. "But they do not command an army of soldiers, either," she reminded him. He finally crumbled and let out a long sigh, his head lowered.

"I know I must seem incompetent, but trust me when I say I operate better this way, Herald-" she immediately flinched at the title.

"Do not call me that," she asked in a stern but cordial tone. Her nails dug into the wood of the chair, anger bubbling up inside from the countless times she'd already heard that forsaken title today. She was tired of it. Cullen immediately picked up on his mistake and cleared his throat.

"Apologies," he went back into his safe place; alone. A pause hung in the air for a moment before he found it too uncomfortable and spoke again. He clearly didn't like the silence when another occupied the room. Left too much time for thought, for analyzing one another.

"How have you been sleeping? Judging by the fact you are here, I don't suppose you fare much better than myself," he changed the subject to hide his discomfort. The commander preferrred to discuss others' troubles rather than his own. Surrendering her need-to-know for the time being, Rasheda let another thoughtful pause fill the air before she answered.

"Mages do not rest in the Fade as others do," she began.

"A well-remembered fact from my days in the Circle," he sounded uneasy again, though said nothing more on the matter. Her eyes flicked back to the floor.

"My clan would erect barriers for us to rest in – I myself created a few safe havens in the Fade over the years," she was filled with a touch of pride to say it out loud.

"Aren't you ever concerned for the threat of demons?" he asked. Her eyes cut across the room.

"_Spirits_ have never been a concern to me," she corrected. "At least not until recently..." she looked away again when her voice edged in doubt. Somehow these were the words that drew the commander back out from his shell of indifference. He stood up straight and turned his head in her direction.

"What do you mean? Have they found you in the Fade?" he asked. She wondered if perhaps his heightened paranoia of spirits was due in part to his training as a templar.

"Not _they_, only one," she explained. He seemed to relax a bit. "Though she never crosses my barrier."

"I'm sorry, _she_?" he sounded a bit confused. "A desire demon, then?" Rasheda was growing annoyed.

"No, a _spirit_," she accused him with her eyes and mouth. "In any case, I think it is a spirit of a lost soul-" her eyes turned away as she recalled the woman standing outside of her barrier, never moving, just staring with that same empty look of dismay.

"You can see the souls of the dead?" he sounded doubtful, though his eyes were already alert with curiosity.

"Yes and no," she explained. "Only those who are trapped between realms, or cannot move on. Sometimes both." She looked up. "All are lost, and it is very sad."

"Are you in any danger?" the obvious question finally came. She herself wasn't certain yet, but Rasheda did not want to give the former templar-commander more reason to distrust her.

"I don't think so," she answered guarded, but honest. "Most lost souls are simply seeking a connection to their former lives – something to help them remember why they died." His expression shifted then.

"Do you think she recognized you?" his voice was strained again, hiding a nearly-imperceptible anxiety clawing up his chest once more. Rasheda shook her head.

"She was an elf, but she was not my kin-" she corrected. Cullen started to press her.

"How can you know?" his anger had returned, full of empty accusations and fear. She cut her eyes at him before continuing.

"She bears the markings of a Circle mage," she spoke clearer so he would not cut her off again. The commander did not – rather, his face turned pale and sick once he absorbed her statement. After a shift of his foot, he turned and made his way over to a chair and leaned on it for support.

"T-Tell me, what did this mage look like?" he sounded shaken. She could not read his face anymore, but Rasheda could hear the tremors in his voice.

"Small but unafraid – dark hair, pale skin, and red markings like fire on her face," she described what little she could remember. In the dark of the room, she could see the commander's entire body tense. She did not have to see his face to know what he now fought tooth and claw to hide from her. The commander knew a mage, and that was the only truth that now mattered.

"She was very beautiful," Rasheda tilted her head and continued on despite the dangerous quiet that now filled the other side of the room. She tried to get a better look at his face. "Did you know her?" she attempted to ease in the question even though she already knew the answer.

No reply.

The commander's breathing had turned rapid. He removed his anchored arm from the chair before abruptly turning to gather his things and strode for the door.

"I-I have to go," were his only rushed words before he slammed the war room door shut behind him. She could hear his paces turn into a jog as he escaped his way back to the safety of his tent where no prying eyes and words could find him.

She did not try to follow, and nor did she move from her seat until long after when she knew the commander had successfully hidden himself from the rest of the camp. Only then did she unfurl from her chair and slip her way back into the dark, both concerned and curious over the commander's reaction to what she had assumed was an isolated incident in her dream-realm.

_So the commander knew a mage..._


	3. Beyond

Cold echoed across the white plains of Haven. He could see silver-white far into the distance where soft snow met rigid ice and stone to form the mountains. Here, tucked between these giants nestled their small encampment. Past the tents and bustling humans, far beyond the edge of the lake there was a thick of forest with a quiet clearing. He had seen her go there many days, always alone, but today he thought it would be respectful to join their elven leader on her path to honor the dead.

He found her, as expected, crouched in the clearing. The earth was still and silent for the event, waiting with baited breath while the Inquisitor carried their individual offerings to each stone and placed them at her feet. Eight stones, with eight small bowls placed in the snow. Within each bowl, she had gathered beautiful flowers and herbs to honor them. He suspected the Creators would be pleased by her dedication.

When she was finally finished placing the bowls and stones, she stepped back – noted his presence with a glance – then knelt in the snow before them with one hand grazed through the air for her prayer.

"O Falon'Din Lethanavir – Friend to the dead, guide their feet. Calm their souls," she moved her hand with grace, closing the prayer with a touch of her fingertips to the wind, "lead them to their rest... Na halamshiral, emma ir abelas na." _(Your journey is over, and I grieve for you) _She let her hand slowly sink back down and touch the snow, dipping her head as well until she nearly lay down. Then, rising from her spot, she sat up and turned to him.

"Ir abelas, ma falon," _(I'm sorry for your loss, my friend)_ he nodded, his tone solemn. She returned the nod and faced back to the front, still crouched in front of the shrines. Solas approached slowly and stood beside her, but did not join her on the ground. It would be untoward to join the grounds upon which she grieved without invitation. He leaned against his staff and admired the stones, each one beautiful and singificant. She had spent all day finding them, most likely.

"Na elvhen'dirth ir lathir,"_ (Your elvish is lovely)_ he complimented her, though he did not smile. It was a solemn day and he would not insult a burial. "You speak our language very well, all things considered," he did not need to remark on the rarity of their kind knowing more than a few elven phrases.

"Ma hahren tu'then elvhen'dirth," _(My keeper taught me elvish)_ she replied. She began to readjust a few of the leaves around the stone, and rested on her knee. "I know more than most, but not as much as I'd like to," she said. "Emma serannas ash enansal ar el'vhen'dirth." _(I'm grateful she gave me the gift of our language)_

Solas had to remind himself not to smile, though his chest filled with pride to hear such fluent elvish from another. It had been a long time since he could hold a conversation with anyone in his own tongue. It was a pleasing experience, though he would remind himself that any celebration on his part would have to wait until later.

"Did you know them well?" he returned the topic to the burial. Her gaze drifted over the stones, eyes hidden and mouth parted, then he watched as she tilted her head and sighed. Her spirit was strong but kind – he could see it without needing to ask.

"The soldiers? Only a little," she answered. "Ar din then vhen'lin dar din..." _(I don't know who among my clan were killed...)_ she murmured while retracing her gaze over the unmarked stones. "They are merely a concept to me now, but I will know their names and hearts soon," she remarked with steadfast solidarity. "I have written a letter – _eluthir __(secretly)__ – _senton my best hart to reach ma hahren _(my keeper)_. I must know for myself what transpired, or I shall not rest."

"The report from the Inquisition's Commander did not please you?" he spoke in a tone of slight ire, feeling frustration on her behalf. He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself, though saw a flash of despair touch the edge of her mouth when the commander was mentioned.

"Ar then shin abelas, din ena'dirth din," _(I know he was sorry, but apologies do not bring back the dead)_ she spoke low and quiet, full of unkempt feelings he could not place. She rose then, graceful in her stance, and turned to Solas with newfound interest. "Would you like to join me, Solas?" she gestured to the stones. An invitation to a private ceremony was a high respect, and he suspected it meant much more to someone like Rasheda to invite a stranger - even another elf - to such. He would not disregard her request.

"Of course," he nodded and stepped forward. Together then knelt in the snow. She placed another bowl – this one crafted of obsidian stone with cracked gold in the places it had been broken and put back together - in front of them both. Three stones and a handful of elfroot rest within. She raised her hands over it, then looked to him. After a hesitant pause, he reached out his palm beside hers and hovered it over the gleaming bowl.

Together, they formed a veilfire within the container. The roots pulsed with life, though did not burn underneath the cool fire. The three jewel-like stones she'd placed inside began to shine with the brilliance of a fade dream, gleaming against a backdrop of white snow. She brought her other hand forward, with Solas carefully watching, and murmured a barely perceptible prayer into the wind.

_Tu'ven elvhen hamin, lathel falon._ _(Take them to rest, beloved friend)_

He felt uncomfortable, as though he shouldn't be here, but he remained for her sake. The fire turned bright green and began to thread with new magic. She kept her eyes shut throughout the process, and although he tried he was anything but focused. It was strange and wonderful to see another elf perform such respects to the dead, even amongst the Dalish. Her features were lax, and her brow stern as she enacted the ritual with the poise of an ancient leader. The Inquisitor sat proud and full of life as she lifted her hand higher and turned the flame blue with a turn of her hand.

The elfroot finally caught fire, and sparked until it broke apart and rose in the air with her magic. He let her take lead, removing his hand from the fire to watch as she rose to her feet and guided the ashes of the elfroot into the wind, watching as it floated away. The magic disippated, as did the light – to which he became quickly aware of the winter sunset descending behind the mountains. It would be dark soon.

"Ar serannas na halam," _(That was well done)_ he couldn't help but compliment her. She turned to him, a solemn smile in her eyes, and bowed her head.

"Ar alaslin'el bel," _(I've had a lot of practice) _she said. Immediately he swallowed and took a half-step away, eyes turning.

"Ir abelas, ar din-" _(I'm sorry, I didn't-) _he started to say, but she raised a palm and smiled at him through her sadness.

"Felas atisha," _(It's okay)_ she calmed him. He immediately fell quiet. "As my clan's primary healer, it was also my duty to guide them after death – ven halamshiral," _(into the afterlife)_ she explained. Rasheda gestured behind them to start walking, to which he politely obliged with a nod. As they moved on, he clasped his hands behind his back to listen to her speak.

"Sahlin dorf him suledin enasal," _(Life was hard but meaningful) _she lifted her chin to glimpse the dying sky as they walked. He surveyed the faded colors of winter like ribbons through the heavens, briefly distracted by its beauty. "I took much pride in what history I knew of my people – of _our_ people," she said. "I spent the majority of my adolescence studying elven history, desperate for some sort of connection to a lost world."

"What did you find?" he inquired. She grew quiet as they passed through the crowded courtyard outside of Haven's entrance. Solas glanced to the training yard where the commander stood amongst a crowd of soldiers, waving throughout their sparring. He stole a glance their way, though turned his head just as quickly. He was avoiding the Inquisitor at all costs – perhaps for the better. Solas wasn't certain he would have reacted as calmly as Rasheda had after discovering what the Commander had unintetionally caused. Once they entered through the gates and were out of earshot of any other humans, she spoke again.

"I found fragments, like cracked pieces of stone," she explained. "All the while I tried putting them together only to find none of them fit each other."

They began to climb the steps towards the middle encampment closer to his dwelling. He wanted to continue talking, but the Inquisitor moved with intention, each footstep sturdier and quicker than the last. He used his arms for momentum to keep up with her pace.

"A thousand years of ruin can cause such things to happen," he said. "Though it does not lessen the uneasiness you are feeling, you should know that you are not solely responsible for recovering the fragments of elven history." They came to a stop at the bottom of the steps leading up to his dwelling. She turned to him.

"Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one," she confessed. "Elvhen nadasir ven'shem annarala – Ar harel elvhen da'eth tu ena'dirth," _(The Dalish are scattered farther each year – I fear there are little of us left to discover such things)_ she had to pause to work out the rest of her sentence. He could see the frustration in her face as she attempted to piece together the phrases she did not fully understand. She fought with each breath to reclaim herself – it was both intriguing and upsetting to watch.

"Ma din'u," _(You are not alone)_ he reassured her before placing a hand to her shoulder. After a second's glance from her he removed it out of instinct. It was a personal gesture, one he wasn't yet afforded. He placed his hands behind his back so he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. "If you ever feel the need to discuss your findings with me, feel free," he tried to sound casual when he made the offer, though his intrigue shown on his face.

"I would very much like that," she nodded. He smiled at her, slow and kind.

"Ar in elva ma nuvenin ar," _(I am here when you need me) _he told her. He could see the admiration in her face as she filtered the phrase and understood its meaning. As Rasheda turned to walk away, she made it a few feet before pausing and turning back to Solas. He was halfway to his door when he stopped to acknowledge her.

"Solas?" she asked.

"Yes?" he stood up fully to face her as she hesitantly paced back to him. He watched her look around, nervous, then turn back to him once she was certain no one else stood nearby.

"How much of our language do you know?" her voice was small and unsure; like that of a child's. She looked embarassed, though he couldn't understand why. Solas blinked and dropped his arms back at his sides.

"Uth," _(neverending) _he replied with a tilt of his chin. "More than most, I would assume," he elaborated. She paused before making an odd face and grasped her thumbs together.

"If it's not too much trouble... serannas tu'then ar?" _(would you teach me?) _she asked finally. He looked surprised for a moment, then softened into another smile most genuine.

"Ar nuvenin han ir," _(As you wish)_ he agreed before turning into the doorway after another nod of acknowledgement to the Inquisitor. He stole another look over his shoulder once she'd turned away, and caught a small smile forming on her lips as she disappeared around the corner. He grinned to himself once she'd absented herself.

A young and curious mind – he had forgotten what it looked like.


	4. Reunion

Isthalla's stomach twisted up inside as they crossed the long bridge leading to the hold. She'd barely spoken a word to either of the soldiers the entire journey, though she'd felt their curious eyes boring into the back of her head ever since leaving the clan. Now that this idea was a formed concept, towering above her in gray-and-clay-colored stone, she felt sick to her stomach. She shuddered on a breath as they passed underneath the massive archway. The world suddenly felt enormous and frightening again, and she was reminded of just how long she'd been away from normal society. It was like leaving the tower all over again.

Her hart clucked and bellowed its discomfort as a crowd formed in the entry to greet them, only to be taken aback by the sight of an unfamiliar intruder among the party of their returning soldiers. She tried to quiet the beast as she climbed off her saddle and landed solid on the earth beneath. Her hand absently brushed her animal's trembling neck as she removed her pack and staff, only to see a few of the people bristle once they recognized it. She was an unknown mage, that's all that mattered.

That's all that ever mattered.

She knew she should wait for a proper authority to come greet her, but already her fingers itched to guide her hart away and out from under the scrutinizing gaze of the ever-growing crowd at the bottom of the castle steps. The two soldiers she'd left her camp with had since dismounted their own horses and merged into the crowd, moving towards someone. Her eyes were drawn to their shouts – there, atop the castle steps – and fell still when she spotted him. He had been jogging his way down the steps to greet his returned soldiers, only to halt halfway down when he, too, saw the mage standing in the center of the courtyard with tightening knuckles grasped around her staff in defense.

For a second, the breath left her body. He stole hard to his spot, arms still frozen in mid-motion from his descent. They stared at one another, struck blind by surprise, until finally he broke from the prism of his shock and began to rapidly descend the stairs once more, now with extreme fervor. It wasn't until his boots hit the soil and he was shouldering his way through the crowd that a panic – blind and uncertain – bloomed in her chest, and like a startled deer Isthalla suddenly backed up and began striding in the opposite direction. She shoved past two bewildered bystanders, and waited until she moved around a corner to pick up her feet.

Seconds after she disappeared she heard his shout – ragged, breathless. Desperate. It harmed her in ways she never thought to allow, and after another sharp pain struck her chest she broke into a sprint and began blindly running up a set of stairs that led to an abandoned, broken part of the castle. Doubt and fear roared in the back of her mind, reasoning that this was a terrible mistake and she should leave. Ten years could not have prepared her for seeing him again; nothing could. She knew it was a mistake, yet her foolish feet had guided her here like a lost puppy looking for its owner. It was a weakness, and one she had to fix before she fell apart all over again.

"Isthalla,_ wait!_" his voice commanded her from across the rampart she'd been crossing. She was halfway to the edge, considering leaping from the broken section if only to get away, when she halted to her spot and turned to face him. She looked as an animal, frightened and reckless, and her eyes wide as she turned to her opposition. His hand was still half-raised when she found him there, standing but ten feet from her.

In that moment, her mind shifted. His face blurred behind a mask of shadow, disrupted by unfamiliar tears that burned in her eyes. That sick feeling rose up in her chest again. It stirred in deep caverns like a monster, rising from the ashes to burn anew within the confines of her small and wounded body. Fire lit up in her very core, none like she'd felt in a decade, and within seconds she found herself pacing forward to meet him. Without a second's pause, she reeled back the flat of her palm, then swung it hard and fast across his face. She would have hit him a second time, except her vision began to blur. A storm rose within the swell of her throat, and finally came out in a rattled gasp she had held in for ten years.

"You _fucking_ bastard," she choked. In that second, she procured every remaining shred of anger from her body. She'd held onto it for so long, and dwelled on it for so many nights it now felt empty – purposeless. Isthalla knew she needed to be angry, but she simply did not have the strength to hold onto it anymore. That upset her more than anything, and in the swell of her chest she let out a choke for breath, then a whimper. All she felt now was_ empty_. He looked up at her with a stricken fear all-too-familiar, and through the haze of her vision she could see that unearthly gaze peering at her from offended posture.

_ You remember those eyes – scared, frightened. Ashamed._

Pulling herself back, she straightened up and sucked in a breath. It took a few more to calm herself, and with a final quiver she finally loosened her expression as well. He continued to stand there in dumbstruck wonder, his absent hand falling from the place where she'd struck him. She swallowed the last of her feelings – the anger, distress, fear – and walked back over to the abandoned tower at the end of the rampart, then opened the door.

She turned to him and, after a hesitant clench of her jaw, gestured for him to follow inside. He paused long enough to configure her silent meaning, then obeyed without a word and followed his mage into the tower. Once they were inside, she shut the door behind him and strode past to close another door that strayed open from the wind.

When all was said and done, Isthalla stood at the west doorway and turned to face her templar. He stood stricken and confused in the middle of the room. Tears still threatened her gaze, but did not fall. He stared at her, demanding answers from questioning eyes she could not deflect. She inhaled sharp and heavy, and released the handle of the door.

"Ten _years_," her voice was still rattled beyond comprehension. "I _waited _for you – desperate, afraid..._ foolish_." She bit on the end with a former venom, then quieted herself. The tremors to her voice cracked like fire under stone. Long forgotten anger bubbled to the surface in weak tendrils, but burned him all the same.

He tried to move forward, frantic; aching to simply touch her to make sure she was real. He had seen her too many times in his dreams and on foggy, lyrium-addled nights when he could think of nothing else. She had to be real, and the only way he could be certain was to feel his fingertips on her skin once more. She held up an abrupt hand, and as an obedient dog he fell back on his heel, though distraught. She could see every part of his body strained in effort to contain himself, to not act on every demanding whim his subconscious screamed at him to take her in his arms and feel her weight again. She mustered up the remaining fragments of her broken anger from unfinished memories, and spun them from tired lips long-forgotten to their meaning.

"You tried to _kill _me, then _left_ me with a group of complete strangers," she picked up her tone with each syllable, gaining momentum on her fiery quest. Her anger felt hollow, her voice numb. She fought with every word to hold onto it, but it was slipping like sand through her fingers. To her great surprise, her templar suddenly unleashed a voice so terrible and heavy she wasn't certain it was he that spoke at first. In the absence of her dying anger, he rose from the depths of his own frustration and let out a roar.

"I had no _choice_!" he rose his voice above hers, if that were ever possible. Weight held in his tone like steel, and it took her breath away. In that moment, she became aware that he had changed, not only in voice but appearance. He held his stance proud and ready, his shoulders held back by a defiant gleam in his eyes. Her soft-spoken templar was gone, replaced by the iron and steel of a soldier that commanded her to be still. Indeed, he possessed the visage of a commander, if Isthalla could have ever believed it. She never thought he had it in him. He took her silence as an opportunity to assert himself, and stepped forward with a snarl formed on his lips.

"I left for Kirkwall to _protect_ you," he accused. "I _tried_ finding you again – I sent scouts to track you down across _Thedas_, and even after ten _years_ I _never_ stopped searching!" Throughout his valiant speech, she never interjected – never said anything. His words were knives at her throat, and she had no idea how to react. Ten years had thickened his hide into stone, and she wasn't sure how to combat it.

"I _never_ gave up, so don't you _dare _accuse me of forgetting you," his voice finally faltered at the end, giving into the crumbling foundation of his rebuttal. For a moment old, softer feelings stirred in her chest. She swallowed the dry sting in her throat and cradled a protective hand to her chest, embarrassed. Meek.

"I'm... sorry," she murmured from unsure lips. His scowl disappeared in an instant as he shifted to right himself.

"...What?" he said breathlessly. She inhaled a shallow breath and dropped her hand back down, weary apologies written in her gaze.

"I'm sorry for what I put you through," she spoke clearer, her voice gaining strength with each breath. "I'm just... so _tired _of being angry about it," she confessed in a shaken tremor. When she looked up again, he looked surprised. She fought to keep her voice level, to stop her hands from shaking. When had she become so weak?

A hundred years would not prepare her for this.

"I don't want to scream or yell – I see it in your eyes," she shook her head when he took a step forward again in confusion. She turned her gaze down. "I won't do this to you anymore," she said. "I refuse to let it happen again."

"What are you saying?" he asked. She could hear the accusing tone to his voice, that slight panic building at the back of his throat as she severed the path before they could go down it again. An unspoken question hung in his gaze. She hated the pain in his eyes, in his lips drawn too tight and within the balled fists at his side he desperately tried to hide.

"I'm saying I'm done with _this_," she leveled her voice again in one breath, cool and calm. Her expression grayed, and the world around her finally settled. No more anger. No more tears. "If it was every anything to begin with," she added as a quiet afterthought.

"You came all this way, just to tell me that?" he sounded appalled. It was strange to think how much their roles had shifted, and now she would be the one to walk away. That might have bothered her a long time ago, but not anymore. She shrugged.

"I suppose I did," she admitted, then turned to leave. A bare, unwanted hand was on her arm before she could move away, and for a split second it seared her flesh like fire.

"_Please_-" he begged. That small word unearthed little deaths from inside her heart, a word so insignificant yet full of such meaning. His voice fell quiet; shaken. "At least... afford me a _moment_-" he asked. The revelation that they were both very much alive and still fighting on the same soil, the same earth – it had yet to sink into their minds. She hung between a state of release and panic, unsure of whether to fight the growing current between them or sink to the bottom of this new abyss to drown.

_Please, Isthalla..._

Another little death in her heart and she turned, finally, to face her antagonist. Her chest felt heavy and unfamiliar. She tried to fix her gaze anywhere but his own – his shoulders, his armor, his hands maybe. He reached out worn, calloused fingers like frigid thoughts uncertain of their purpose to hesitantly rest against her throat. She held her breath tight as each fingertip – clumsy and uncertain – moved up her bare neck to grasp her face. She trembled as his palms shifted further, until finally he ran tired thumbs across the planes of her jaw to cradle her face. She slipped, quiet and quick, and with a single breath rushed forward into his arms to meet the fabric and steel of his chest.

"I thought you were dead," he murmured into her neck as he wrapped great arms around her and held her close. She breathed in – warm fabric and leather, sweat and heat that possessed him as she'd ever known. She inhaled a memory long forgotten, remembering that scent – missing him even now as she held him so close. It only took a moment's weakness – a small exhale that sunk her further into the crook of his neck as he held her almost too tight. Slow and unsteady, her hands crept up to grab the fabric of his coat and anchor herself there as the world shifted around them. Steady, slowed heartbeats calmed her to a murmur.

Isthalla stood there and hugged him until her fingers ached and her heart weighed her to the floor. When old sensations began to stir sleepless in her chest, she knew it was time to leave. Guilt betrayed her as she forced herself to break away, acutely aware of his reluctance as well when he unlatched his arms from around her body. They parted and stepped away from one another. Already the space between them was too great to bear.

She could say one word, a single breath's worth, and he would yield. She could see it in his eyes and the parted form of his pleading mouth. He wanted her to stay. Nothing had changed for him, and Isthalla could see from the worn lines of his face how long he had spent worrying for her, thinking about her. Missing her. She had spent ten years forgetting those sad eyes, and to let go of what had happened. To forget her beloved templar was the hardest death she had ever faced.

Though her heart ached with old wounds and body defied to remain, she forced herself to turn and leave before any more blood could be spilt. He had shed enough. Isthalla would never ask nor want again to feel such a knife at her heart, no matter how much she missed him.

_No matter._

She nodded and, without another word, ducked out of the doorway and left him standing in the abandoned watchtower.


End file.
